Let me start by clearing the air. Unequivocally, I love my wife. I honestly do. I've never so much as looked at another woman, let alone lay my hands on one and break the sanctity of our wedding vows. Nor do my feelings on the present issue color any other feelings I have for her; we try to make every day a fresh opportunity to show our love and share the best and worst that life has to offer. But if I hear one more time about me splashing a little on the rim of the bowl after a backbreaking 12 hours on the line, I'm going stab her repeatedly until the primal screams of desperate anguish fade into the cold serenity that only death can bring.
Working at 3M, operating the machine that sprays adhesive on to the back of Scotch Tape, is a physically and mentally exhausting job. For 12 hours a day, I am required to lift, fill, press, feed, and repeat. For 12 hours. The last thing I need to hear 10 minutes after I finally get to kick my feet up in the evening is "Oh, Marty, why can't you pee in the water like a normal husband?" You know what? Fuck you, sweet cheeks.
First of all, I am normal. Every guy I know lets fly a few errant sprinkles. Just try to imagine a fireman holding a fire hose; do you think he commits fine brush strokes to his burning canvas with that implement? Of course not! Such is trying to pee for any given male.
And do you know what? Sometimes I'm just to tired to point-and-click. Sometimes, I don't even use my hand, but just let it hang like laundry on a summer day. Even when I pee into the water, it just splashes up and gets on the rim anyway, as well as my jeans, my shirt, my sandals, your brush. Is that what you want? Do you want my piss in your hairbrush? Why don't you just tell me what it is you really want? I'd like to see you try to buy that T-Fal set without the money I ring out of me like so much sweat each and every day. Why don't you get a real job and stop being a "homemaker" and then, when you get home at the end of a weary day, we'll see if you pee in the toilet! I bet you just piss all over the crotch of your pants half way home on 35.
- Marty Polcski